IT was the middle of October when Bess got home, and from that time on, the days fairly flew, until, before we knew it, Christmas was looming up about three weeks off. She and I got to talking about it one Saturday early in December.
"What you going to give your father?" I asked.
"I bought him one very, very fine handkerchief in each town I was in this Fall, and I've been embroidering his signature on them."
"His initials, you mean," I grinned.
"No, I don't, I mean his signature. I took it off of the bottom of a letter, with carbon-paper, and worked over it."
"Forger!" I said.
Bess laughed. "It was awfully hard to do, for the letters were so little and uneven; but they looked all right when they were done, and he thinks they're fine.'
"He does? You haven't shown them to him?"
